


Adjusting - A Wesson Fic

by SomethingWiccanThisWayComes



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Basically all of the characters okay?, Conclusion: I'm awful, F/F, F/M, I love him why do I do these things??, I'll try to keep them relevant, M/M, Our playthrough is the base for Wilson and Wes's story prior to joining the survivor group, There will be references that only we will understand, This is loosely based off my DST server with my friend, Wes dies and suffers a lot in this one, Willow is Asian in this one boys, be warned, don't know yet, loosely, other ships might appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 07:17:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17504081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingWiccanThisWayComes/pseuds/SomethingWiccanThisWayComes
Summary: Wes hates people. That fact will never change. Well, except Wilson, but he was the exception.It was cruel, really, to then force him into a group of sixteen other survivors.Add that to his confusing feelings for his survival partner, and Wes might just go crazy.That is, if the Constant doesn't get to him first.





	Adjusting - A Wesson Fic

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna get gay and it's gonna get gory, maybe both at once. Warning; Wes cusses. Alot. This is an unplanned disaster but it might be a fun one so let's go.
> 
> Dedicated to a certain person from tumblr who inspires a lot of my Wesson shit. You know who you are. Thanks for the inspiration, scientist husband.

Wes huffed and edged away from Wilson. The scientist was his only friend, and he had no qualms with sharing a tent with the British gentleman, but...  
  
The man moved in his sleep, and his scratchy stubble was once again pressed against Wes's cheek as the taller man clung to him tightly. The mime let out a long breath before relenting and relaxing into the strong arms around him. He felt his eyes starting to slip shut, a rarity for the insomniac, and a smile stretched his painted lips as he allowed himself to melt into the warm embrace. This was how he liked it; just him, and his scientist, together against the Constant.   
  
"MORNING NEWBIES! GET YOUR ASSES OUT OF BED!" Except it wasn't just him and his scientist anymore. It was him, his scientist, and sixteen strangers. The black-haired woman in the 'doorway' of the tent was grinning mischievously as she stared at the two. Wilson only tightened his grip around Wes's midsection and buried his nose into the mime's messy black hair. Wes elbowed him a bit and watched his almond eyes flutter open, dark chocolate irises catching a bit of sunlight and taking on an almost golden colour. Wes swallowed and glanced away. His feelings for the man seemed to be as strong as ever.   
  
"Morning." He mumbled, rubbing his eyes, his three-pronged hair bouncing back into its usual position. Wes tried to ignore how rough his voice sounded, still muddled with sleep. He quickly stood, wincing as he put pressure on his wounded leg, and offered his gloved hand to Wilson. When he continued to lean on his elbow and glance at the makeshift pillow, Wes grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet. With both hands occupied hefting 140 pounds of dead weight (he knew it should have been more, Wilson was 6"2, afterall, but the Constant didn't exactly let one indulge in a proper diet) he was unable to sign his exasperation, so shaking his head and raising a brow would have to suffice.   
  
Wilson chuckled and allowed himself to be dragged over to the chest containing his clothes. Wes released one of Wilson's wrists to make a ‘shoo’ motion at the Asian woman still standing in the entrance. She stuck her tongue out at him with childish glee and walked off, her Teddy bear bouncing against her skirt. Wes’s lip pulled up in a sneer; well, fuck him for wanting some privacy to get dressed. He wiped the look off his face when he noticed Wilson's worried gaze. Right. She was probably just being friendly. Banter. Wes didn't think he'd get used to it. Back on the filth covered streets where he grew up, there were two kinds of interactions; ‘get over here and fight me’ and ‘stay on your side so we don't end up fighting’. This weird ‘come fight me but in a friendly way’ thing was hard to get used to. It had been difficult enough relearning survival with Wilson, now he had to repeat the process sixteen more times, from what he'd been told. He almost wished they hadn't found this little base, but then again, they hadn't really had much of a choice

 

\---------

 

_“Come on Wes!” Wilson's voice rang out over the snarling behind them, urging the mime's feet forward. Not that the encouragement was necessary; Wes liked being shredded to pieces by wild dogs as much as anyone else. That is to say, not at all. He cursed himself for wearing heeled boots as he ran after Wilson, gloved hand trying desperately to grab hold of Wilson's three-fingered one. Finally joining hands, he let Wilson lead the way, praying he wouldn't lead them to a cliff, or worse, more hounds. The torch was dying but Wilson kept shouting (most likely to himself), “We can make it! We can make it! Night's almost over, we can make it!!” Wes was starting to feel a bit of hope as well as he noticed a faint glow on the horizon._

 

_Then he tripped._

 

_He forced himself to let go of Wilson's hand. If he was going to die, he wasn't taking Wilson down with him. Unfortunately, the scientist was as stupid as he was kind, and he gasped and spun around, ready to risk his life for the mime. Wes felt tears gather in his grey eyes as hot fangs snatched up his leg. This was it. He was going to get Wilson killed. For some reason that thought hurt more than thinking about his own inevitable demise. The hound bit down and got ready to shake, its pack already catching up, when a shout made all of them, canine and human alike, freeze. A woman with curly red hair and fiery blue eyes stood before them, brandishing an axe. The hound holding his leg blinked in surprise. It shook its head as if in disbelief. With Wes's leg still clamped firmly in its mouth. Wes didn't have time to process the immense pain before others arrived, killing off the hounds with a cacophony of war cries and victorious shouts._

 

_“Wes! Wes!!” Wilson's hoarse screams cut the party's celebration short. Wes barely was able to realize,_ ‘Oh shit, other survivors.’, _before he blacked out._

 

\---------

 

He'd woken up a few times, mostly to go back into shock at the pain of his infected leg being treated, but the few times he was lucid, Wilson was there. He explained what was going, that there were others, that they weren't alone anymore. Now here he was, injured, socially inept, and about to leave the tent and meet the group for the first time. A group that probably hated them for bringing hounds to their doorstep. A group that’s only real interaction with him was his silent thrashing whilst being treated, and that one time the guy with the odd hat had walked in whilst he was conscious and had gotten medical supplies chucked at his head. Wilson's hand on his shoulder jolted him back to reality. He'd spaced out long enough for the other to get dressed in his usual black undershirt, white button up, and red vest. So, spaced out for a while, then.

 

“Hey, it'll be okay.” Wes huffed and looked away, embarrassed that he was so easily read. Dammit, what happened to Wes, the street performer who gave zero fucks about anyone? Looking back at Wilson he let the title fade back into his memories. He knew what happened. He'd been rescued by a dorky Englishman with awful grooming habits and a penchant for making science puns. A dorky Englishman who knew him well enough by now to tell he was nervous when no one else could. Wes sighed and leaned against him for a minute. He could do this. Wilson tapped his shoulder and held up a shard of mirror, something they'd both been ecstatic to find, and waited patiently while Wes checked his makeup. He'd have to gather ingredients to make more as he'd left everything back at their old base, but he was presentable enough. He pulled a few exaggerated faces and smiled softly at Wilson's rich laughter. He could do this. He had Wilson.

 

He could do this.

 

\---------

 

He couldn't do this.

 

Warbucks was just so. God. Damn. Annoying.

 

The old explorer was going on and on about something stupid. Had been for the past twenty minutes, as far as Wes could tell.

 

“He's bland as hell, isn't he?” A voice to his left murmured. Wes jumped and looked over to find a man with a milk brown complexion, dark eyes staring blankly at the old man a few feet away. Wes scooted over towards him, eager for some shit-talking. His one weakness, other than Wilson, was some good verbal bashing. Ironic considering his handicap. The man extended a hand. “Warly.”

 

Wes hesitated then shook his hand as he studied the rest of his facial features. A squared jaw with styled facial hair and thick curls pulled into a high bun. He flushed under his makeup as Warly noticed him staring. He smiled and shrugged.

 

“Everyone has their quirks. Yours certainly isn't the weirdest.” He made a pointed head movement towards Warbucks, who was now wielding his (thankfully unloaded) gun about like some sort of scepter, boasting loudly about how he single-handedly defeated a deerclops, whatever that was. “It's Wes, right?” Wes turned back to him and nodded. Warly looked a bit bewildered but smiled nonetheless. “So, is the whole ‘quiet guy’ thing part of the mime act, or is it more of a mystery and intrigue kind of thing?” Wes pulled a deadpan expression and motioned at his throat, shaking his head. Warly ducked his head with an awkward ‘ooooohhh’. Wes waved him off. He really didn't want to be treated any differently. Maybe he should've agreed it was for the mime gig.

 

Thankfully, before Warly could start apologizing, a little pig girl came running up to him, eagerly shoving a bunch of seeds in his hand.

 

“Warly! Warly! Help me cook these!” Warly laughed and tousled her ginger ringlets.

 

“Alright, Wilba, alright! Come on, I'm sure we can get Miss Willow to start up a little fire, yeah?” Wilba jumped about excitedly, grabbing his hand and tugging him after her. Saved by the bell- er, pig.

 

“Oh, uh, sorry about.. ya know.” Warly called back as he left.

 

...Dammit.

 

That had been the reaction by everyone so far. He hated it. He hated the instant reaction of ‘Oh, poor Wes! He can't talk!’ that everyone seemed to have. The only person who hadn't had been Wilson. Wes was human, that had been good enough for him. He hadn't even spent a full hour with these people and was already yearning for his old camp. Speaking of his old camp, he caught sight of Wilson speaking to an old woman across from him. He moved to walk over to them only to be stopped by a tanned hand grabbing his arm.

 

“I say, ol’ chap!” _Please fuck off._ Wes pulled his arm from Warbucks’ grasp with an irritated look. Unfortunately, the man was as daft as he was boastful, and completely missed the look. “You're a rather funny looking fellow, aren't you? I don't believe we've been formally introduced yet; my name is Warbucks, and-” Wes pointed excitedly behind the man. When Warbucks spun around, equally excited, Wes turned and sprinted off. He dove behind Wilson, peering around him to see Warbucks looking about.

 

“Young man, that leg is not healed enough for that kind of nonsense!” A sharp tone informed him. He turned to see the old woman glaring at him over her glasses. He shoved his gloved hands into Wilson's and dragged the man to his feet.

 

“Wes! I think Ms. Wickerbottom is right, you really shouldn't be running about-”

 

_[We've both been through worse.]_ Wes reminded him. Wilson paused and looked away with a grimace. Ms. Wickerbottom looked between the two with a furrowed brow, clearly about to ask what Wes had just said. Wes quickly grabbed Wilson’s hands once more and dragged him off towards their tent. Once inside, he flopped down on the bed roll, making a show of pantomiming his exhaustion. Wilson cracked a smile.

 

“Yes, yes, people are exhausting. But did you really have to pull me away from a conversation?” Wes smiled sheepishly at Wilson's eye roll. Despite his annoyances he dropped down beside Wes and breathed in deeply. “Don't feel too bad, she was just asking where we came from.” Wes made a face. “I know, you don't like nosy people. Ironic, considering-” Wes shoved him away playfully as he tapped the end of his long, pointed nose. The younger man retaliated by poking Wilson's own large nose. Wes felt like he could drown in that laugh. He met it with a silent one of his own and rolled over to face him.

 

Right as Wilson rolled over to face him.

 

“...hi.” Wilson mumbled. Wes swallowed and waved. He hadn't really noticed before, probably because they hadn't had a moment of peace since their initial meeting, but Wilson had a faint spattering of freckles across his nose, and what looked like a small dot to the left of his mouth. How had he not noticed that before? Was it a mole? No, it was too… oh. He had gotten a bit close, hadn't he. Wilson's nose was a few centimeters away from his own at this point. Wilson’s face was light pink, and he cleared his throat. “Wes…” There was a moment of tense silence, as if something needed to be said but wasn't, when the woman from earlier threw open the tent once more.

 

“You're supposed to be interacting with us, lovebirds! Let's go! You're makeout session can wait till later!” Wes blushed and jumped up. He didn't miss the odd look that came over Wilson's face. Whatever, he'd ask him later. Right now, he had some grade A Hell to go through. He felt Wilson slip his hand into his own and squeeze. Hell was always easier to walk through with Wilson at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Boom, there ya go, sexual tension in the first chapter. Would you believe me if I said this was a slow burn?? No?? Understandable, have a nice day.


End file.
